Plotting
by thereichenbachpen
Summary: Molly and John come up with a scheme of a very unusual nature to force Sherlock to notice Molly's affection for him and perhaps discover reciprocal feelings in the process. Minor spoilers in reference to past episodes. Post Reichenbach Falls. Definitely a Sherlolly fic. (I apologize for any typos, etc.)


Sherlock swept from the lab, leaving Molly tearful and pink.

John pinched the bridge of his nose. "I am," he gaped for words, landing on the same one he always did, " _so_ sorry, Molly. He is such an—"

"I know. It's okay," she stuttered, covering her cheeks. "Don't feel like you have to apologize for him. It's okay."

"No," John said pointedly, "No, it's not. It's not okay that he treats you like this—at _your_ work, of all places. Bloody—" he caught himself, coughing to cover the swear. "What I mean is," he said, putting an uncertain hand on Molly's shoulder, "that it isn't right for him to be the way he is."

Molly shrugged, leaning against a counter, scrunching her lab coat with trembling fingers. John could tell she wanted to be left alone- to cry, most likely.

He turned to leave, but paused at the door. Her head was in her hands now. "Molly," he said slowly.

She looked up, "Yes?"

"Molly, I- I don't like you." She looked at him, brows raised, and John mentally slapped himself. "Oh my—that came out wrong—totally wrong. Please try to forget that. I—am… sorry." Molly laughed weakly, her brow creased. John coughed, "I do _like_ you—what I mean is, I don't have— _affection_ for you other than friendship—"

"I know," Molly said, reassuringly, prompting him to go on.

"But I think," he said, suddenly doubtful if it was wise to tell her what he thought. "But I think Sherlock might. Like you, I mean."

"He doesn't," she immediately, tears welling up in her eyes.

"But you," John said quickly, "you like him?"

Molly laughed, bitterly this time, "That obvious?"

Smiling sympathetically, John went on, "Molly, I think Sherlock likes you—always has. He just hasn't observed it." For a moment he simply paced toward her, the lab quiet, his mind whirring. "And I think I know… how we might change that."

Her eyes shot up, bright and hopeful, "How?"

John smiled, "Molly Hooper, how would like to be my girlfriend?"

The first step was drawing faint lines. John made sure to smile only slightly as he walked into the flat—Sherlock didn't need major clues to pick up on it.

"What has you so happy?" Sherlock asked, lifting his chin from his violin. "Did… Sandra call you back?"

"It was _Sarah_ and no. Can't a man be happy?" John asked, walking into the kitchen to start tea. He ignored the masses of livers sorted on the table, apparently by color… or grossness.

Sherlock followed, as John knew he would.

John put a hand to his pocket, as if checking his phone, and then put on the water, considered humming, and then decided that was overdoing it. "Tea?" John asked, getting down a pair of mugs. Sherlock only sat down and watched him intently. He felt himself blush a bit—from guilt, not discovered crush, as Sherlock thought. Or as John hoped Sherlock thought. "I'll take that as a—" he stop mid-sentence, his hand leaping to his phone. He grinned at the text- from Molly, of course.

'How's it going? –MH' John's smiled deepened: a duel meaning.

'I'm great.' John paused, as if in thought. Deleted the sentence. 'I'm good. You? –JW' Still, he waited a moment, feigning uncertainty before pressing send. He smiled after his text as if he could watch it disappear into the lines of communication. Unwilling, he put the phone back in his pocket.

"Who's that?" Sherlock asked, trying to sound uninterested.

"No one," John said. "Do you want tea or not?"

"It's not no one. Yes."

John scrounged around for tea bags in the cabinets and came up with a lemon and peach flavored.

"I want the peach," Sherlock said.

John sighed. A test. But he so did despise lemon. Oh well. "Fine," he said. Sherlock's eyebrows shot up.

"Are you going to tell me?"

"Nope," John said, popping his lips on the 'p' at the end of the word. "Why do you care?"

"Bored, John. Impossibly _bored!_ "

Another text came in and John paused with hand over the whimpering kettle to check it.

'Not up to much. Call me? –MH'

He tugged the teapot off, eyes wondering in the roof plastering, thinking of a reply. He absently poured the water and dropped in the tea bags. His thumbs hesitated over the keys. 'Love to. 7 okay? –JW'

The next text was immediate. 'Perfect. –MH'

"Well I'm _not_ bored, so if you'll excuse me," John said, taking his tea and the honey jar into the next room.

Glancing at the wall clock, John went and sat in the living room, switching on the telly. Weather was on, but he made no attempt to change the channel.

"What are you watching that infernal junk for? You know I tell you the weather before we go out."

"Hm?" John asked, flipping open his phone. No text. He frowned. Three minutes to seven. His eyes darted to the clock again.

"You never watch the weather. You never give up the peach tea. What wrong with you?"

"I'm in a good mood—is that so terrible?" He grinned as his phone began to ring and he got up from the couch. Before his bedroom door closed, John made sure he whispered loud enough for Sherlock to hear. "Hey, Molly."

John had said we could expect them today. She had dressed carefully—painstakingly. A fitting blouse ended up being the only change except for a little extra lipstick and very thin eyeliner. Small earrings dotted her ears too, but these she worse sometimes anyway. They were new however. No one at the lab would notice the change. But Sherlock would.

"Male between thirty and thirty five, heart attack. Now," Sherlock commanded, sweeping into the morgue.

Molly made sure to let him see her on tiptoe, looking over his shoulder and never at him. "Where's—" she began, but John came in next and she lit up. It wasn't hard. She was excited about their plan. "Hi John," she said merrily.

"Hey," John said, smoothly. He coughed, shifting his feet a bit awkwardly. She could smell his cologne, light as it was. "Sorry about, you know, barging in here. You know how he is."

"Oh no it's fine," Molly smiled. "You're always welcome here," she paused a beat and then hastily added, "both of you, I mean."

"Male between thirty and—" Sherlock began again.

Molly huffed, "I know. One minute."

Sherlock's eyes snapped up to her, surprised at her tone. She went to the body drawers, glancing apologetically at John.

She pulled out a body, and glanced at Sherlock, "Will this do?"

He didn't answer, but immediately began to dig at the corpse with a scalpel.

"You're welcome," Molly said irritably. She rolled her eyes at John, who shrugged.

"It was nice talking to you," John murmured, low enough to sound as if he were trying to hide it from Sherlock. "Would you, sometime, maybe want to—"

"John," Sherlock said. "I need a doctor's opinion." He didn't look up from the bloody chest he was working on, but just waited expectantly.

He heard John sigh, "Excuse me," he muttered to Molly before coming to his side.

When they finished, John hung back, leaving Sherlock to wait, impatiently, by the door.

"So, um," John said, helping Molly tidy up. "Coffee?"

She held back a giggle, blushing conveniently. "I'd love to. I mean, if that's what you meant—I didn't mean to sound—"

"No that's what I meant," John said, chuckling. "Friday? Around three?"

"Sure," she smiled. "Thank you. See you then."

"Okay."

"Okay," she whispered. "Bye."

"John, _please_ , can we go now?"

"Whoa, he said please," John said significantly to Molly who giggled. "Better go. Bye."

The two men left, one smiling, one glowering.

Friday came around. John spent three extra minutes in the shower, seven getting dressed, and two double-checking his things. Not drastic, but not missed by the world's only consulting detective.

"Where are you going?"

"Like you don't know," John said, leaning toward the mirror, trying to fix his hair. "I've got a—I'm going to coffee with Molly."

"Step one."

"What?" John asked, tearing his eyes away, dissatisfied with his part.

"Coffee. It's always step one. And then a movie, dinner," Sherlock explained. "Rather predictable, really, John. Dull."

"Girls seem to like it," John said, defensively turning to face Sherlock. "But it's not a date. We're just friends." His eyes snapped to his phone as a text came, barely finishing his sentence. Sherlock scoffed, but said nothing. John chuckled at the text.

'Excited for our date. Want to meet there or pick me up from Bart's? –MH'

Another text followed on it's heals.

'That is, if you don't mind. Didn't mean to sound presumptuous. –MH'

Another.

'Sorry. –MH'

'Was already leaving to pick you up. –JW'

He considered and then sent another.

'I'm excited too. –JW'

"Double texting," Sherlock muttered.

"What was that?" John asked, smiling at the smiley face from Molly.

"Nothing. Don't want to be late picking her up for your _date_."

"How did you know I was—" John began, but sighed. "Never mind. I don't want to know."

"Reflection," Sherlock said, shutting his eyes. "Reading backwards isn't terribly difficult, you know."

"Do me a favor and stop telling me how you deduce things," John said, flaring. "And don't read my text." He walked out and slammed the door.

He called Molly as soon as he got the cab to himself, "He bought it—he more than bought it. Molly, you are- absolutely brilliant."

She laughed on the other end of the line. "I only know because he used that one on one of my…" he could almost feel her blush," boyfriends. Exes," she corrected herself lamely.

"Brilliant," John said grinning. "And I think he might be following me. Be there in about five."

"See you then," she laughed and they hung up.

John made a show of buying the same kind of coffee Molly did, even though he didn't care for peppermint. He winced inwardly, taking a sip. He better notice.

The "date" was surprisingly enjoyable. What did they talk about? What didn't they? John ended up summarizing his college and military years while Molly talked more about her life growing up. They also talked about Sherlock, but not their plans. Who knew if he was listening some how? John insisted on buying the drinks and a loaf of cinnamon bread that they shared. They hugged at the door and Molly pushed back her hair, cheeks rosy from the cool weather. Perfect.

"Molly," said John turning back. She looked surprised. "Have you—have seen that film that came out last week?"

"Which one?" she asked, smiling lightly.

John shrugged, "Any of them?"

She laughed, "Haven't been to the theatre in ages."

"Would you want to see something with me? Tomorrow maybe?"

"I love to, John," she said rocking on one toe. "Thanks for today."

When they parted, John made sure to grin all the way to his cab. At the door to his flat, he fixed his jacket, took a deep breath, and entered with a serious face. He looked around.

"Sherlock?" he asked.

As John had hoped, the detective entered from behind him.

"Oh," John said. "Been out, have you?"

"Peppermint," Sherlock said. "You hate peppermint, John."

"No I don't," he said, taking off his jacket. A text came in. 'Thanks so much for today. I had fun xx –MH'

John didn't even have to try to blush at the x's.

"Yes you do," Sherlock persisted.

John ignored him, replying to his text. 'It was great. Can't wait for tomorrow.' He hesitated and then grinned, adding, 'xxx –JW' John looked up to find Sherlock listing off reasons why he knew that John hated peppermint.

"Give it a rest, already! I just thought I'd give it a try, that's all," he said. Then shrugged. "Molly likes it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You can't possibly be intending to _date_ her, John. She's so—"

"She so _what,_ Sherlock?" John snapped. "I dare you to finish that sentence."

Sherlock looked a bit taken aback. "Well, she's so silly," he said, somewhat lamely. "Always stuttering and _nervous_."

"Maybe around you," he pointed out. "You're so mean to her, how can she not be?"

"Mean?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes. Mean," John said. "Cruel, rude, unfair. I think all those are fitting. You make her cry almost every time we visit _her_ lab. If you can't see that, you're not half the man I thought you were." It was harsh, but it had to be said. "And yes. I intend to date her. I'm taking her to a film tomorrow."

"Step two," Sherlock muttered, but John pretended not to hear.

"You can't _come,_ Sherlock."

"Why not? You said yourself that it's not a date."

"Yeah? Well it is and it's private so—"

The doorbell rang.

The men raced to answer it. Mrs. Hudson looked their expectant faces, a bit ruffled. "Well," she said, as their expressions died. "It's good to see you too."

They turned away, Sherlock huffing moodily.

"Molly Hooper is here," Mrs. Hudson said. "I told her to wait in the hall. Far too messy in here for her to see." The landlady looked despairingly at the livers on the counter as John rushed past her.

"Molly," he said. The young pathologist smiled. She was wearing a dress, light green, that fell just above her knee, a light cardigan, and knee-high boots. Her hair fell in light curls. "You look beautiful," John said and he meant it.

Molly smiled, "You don't look so bad yourself, Dr. Watson. Are you ready to go? I'm afraid I've made us a bit late." She bit her lower lip.

"Oh no, I think we're fine. I just have to deal with—"

"John doesn't think it appropriate for me to join you on your outing," Sherlock drawled, noosing his scarf around his neck. "I don't see how it's a problem. As it's _not_ a date."

"Actually," Molly said, softly looking a John with mischievous eyes. "I was under the impression that it was. Wouldn't have wasted all that time getting ready otherwise."

"It _is_ a date," John said, tiredly. "And you can't come, Sherlock. Molly doesn't want you to, do you Molly?"

Molly laughed. "You get all pink when you're annoyed, did you know that John? He can come. I don't mind, really. As long as I get to see you all ruffled," she said, giggling thoroughly.

"Fine," John said. "But if you mess this up," he addressed his friend, "I'll kill you."

"I doubt that," Sherlock said dryly, brushing past him down the stairs. They heard the front door slam.

John sighed, "That was close. I thought I talked him out of it for a minute."

"He wasn't about to let you make him do something," Molly said, shaking her head. "Shall we?" she asked, offering one of her mitten-clad hands.

John took it, "We shall."

The movie was a mystery. Why Molly? Just… why? John was pretty sure Sherlock's lips never stopped moving, predicting (correctly) the entire movie into John's ear. He sat in between the pathologist and the detective, feeling perfectly uncomfortable.

John sighed, now knowing that the doctor had been the killer. A perfect twist ending ruined. He turned to Molly. "Popcorn?" he asked. She just nodded, eyes glued to the screen.

John reentered the theatre, eyes straining a bit in the dark. Before he cleared the steps back up the seats, he found Sherlock and Molly with his eyes. Sherlock was staring indirectly at Molly, ice eyes flashing over her. She jumped when an actor fired a gun and Sherlock smiled just the smallest bit at her reaction.

John hurried up the steps, pushing the smile from his face.

Both of his companions took a handful of popcorn as soon as he sat down, both took a bite, and both said, almost in unison. "Too much salt."

Molly added, "But thank you," snuggling her head against John's arm when the final showdown happened.

When the movie ended, the threesome walked out into the lobby, chatting about the movie. Rather, two were chatting and one was complaining about the simplicity of the plot.

At the door, they threw away their trash and stopped to say goodbye.

Sherlock coughed awkwardly. "I'll let you two… say goodbye then."

"Thanks," Molly smiled briefly at him. When he turned to leave, she looked at him again, as if remembering. "Bye."

His brow knitted. "Goodbye, Molly. I'll… hail a cab, shall I John?"

John only nodded, eyes fixed on his "date." Sherlock made a noise in the back of his throat before exiting.

John and Molly laughed—John so hard that he had to sit down at one of the little chairs, wiping his eyes. "He looked so affronted. Us not paying him any attention."

"I hope we haven't hurt his feelings," Molly said, nervously plucking at her scarf.

"You're kidding me," John said. "He's a jerk all the time. We got some license to do it back I think."

"You're right…" she hesitated. "John? I've had an idea…"

"What?" he asked, standing up.

She fished around in her purse, withdrawing lipstick. She opened it and rubbed some on one finger. She blushed red. "Come here." John bent down a bit to her level and she smeared it a little on his cheek. "There. Make sure you try to rub it off. He'll notice."

John laughed, "Brilliant, Molly. This was fun."

"It really was," Molly said. "We do this for real sometime." Her cheeks almost caught on fire. "As friends! Of course."

"Definitely. I mean, I'd love to—as friends," John said, rubbing the lipstick around on his face. "Can you still see it?"

Molly scrunched up her eyes, "Barely."

"Perfect. Text me in – 13 minutes?"

"You got it. I'll call you tonight too."

"Great," he waved, turning to leave. "Oh! And Molly? It's about time we had our first fight, don't you think?"

Molly had to pinch her arm quite hard to make herself cry. She brought old pictures, thought about Sherlock, her favorite cat that had died last spring, Sherlock, how she had failed her first college exam, Sherlock, and held her eyes open for nearly two minutes to really get the tears going.

They finally began to flow. She gave it a good half an hour, dried her tears and smeared on cover-up. Her eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep—she'd watched all of "House" season eight the night before. John had said looking tired was dead give away for being in a fight. He'd done the same—except he had no aid of TV. He had read _The Hobbit_ by book light under his blankets. Molly imagined he had a time of it staying awake.

Her phone rang. "Hello?"

"Hey Molly. This should be short so when he gets a hold of my phone he'll suspect something, but you should know, he's on his way. Man I'm excited for when we get back together!"

"I know," she sighed. "I'm going to take a whole day off to sleep."

John laughed, "I will talk to you tomorrow. Bye."

"Bye."

"Oh Molly?"

"Yeah?"

"He's in a _mood,"_ John warned before hanging up.

Molly put her phone on the counter, where she normally kept it. She looked around. Nothing was out of place. She was in loose jeans and a kitty cat tee- the one she wore when she was sad. Her hair was in a sloppy bun—more concealing make-up than usual, but nothing else.

"Molly," Sherlock greeted. "Coffee. Black. Two sugars."

Molly rubbed his eyes, ducking her head trying to hide her "was-just-in-a-fight" expression and slunk away to get the coffee. She handed it to Sherlock without a word.

He had helped himself to the stored organs in the walk in freezer (pass code protected, of course, but this was Sherlock we were talking about) and was currently studying a shriveled kidney.

He sighed and looked up at Molly, who was filing. "What was it about?"

"What?" Molly asked, not lifting her eyes to his.

"Oh please," Sherlock said. "Don't ask pointless questions. What is your fight with John over?"

"We're not—"

"Yes you are. John didn't sleep and neither did you, obviously. You've caked on your concealer, which hasn't improved your eyes, which are red from crying. And you're wearing that hideous shirt. Obviously, you've had a row. Now, what was it over?"

Molly hiccupped, actual tears in her eyes. All she had to do was think of old insults and up sprang the water works. "I don't really want to talk about it."

Sherlock squinted his eyes, looking uncomfortable. "John… John is my best friend, Molly. You know that. I need to know if, and why, I have occasion to beat him up. Now what has he done to make you so upset?"

Molly laughed feebly. "He didn't do anything… it… it was my fault, really."

"Fine. What did _you_ do then? Though I thoroughly doubt you're to blame."

"It… it was dinner," Molly said. "He said he would get the bill, but I insisted that I could. I don't really know how it got so…" she shrugged, holding back tears. "I pointed out that I made more money. I guess I shouldn't have said that. He said that if I wasn't going to let him be a gentleman then… maybe we shouldn't date." She bit her lower lip, which was trembling. She had to focus intently on poor Mittens, her darling cat, to make the tears real.

"As I suspected. You were in the right, Molly. It was only logical that you foot the bill. But, knowing John, I see that pointing out his lack of finances might offend him," here he rolled his eye. "May I suggest going Dutch in the future?"

Molly had resorted to his Great Uncle's funeral now, the tears really streaming. "I don't think," she choked, "we have a future." She sat down hard in her chair.

Sherlock patted her awkwardly on the back. "There, there. _Please_ don't cry. You and John will most likely get back together, given that you are of a similar nature and that you are both absurdly forgiving." Molly only sobbed harder. "If you wish, I'll talk to John."

"You would—" Molly squeaked. "You would do that? For me?"

"If it means you'll stop crying and it puts John in a," he hesitated, "less sour mood, then yes."

Without warning, Molly hugged Sherlock around the middle, lightly, and for less than a second, before whispering, "Oh thank you!" and stumbling out of the lab.

John was half-asleep on the couch when Sherlock arrived at the flat, banging the door open. He had two cups of coffee in hand.

"We need to talk," Sherlock said, handing John a cup.

John took it, staring at it for a moment. "About what?"

"You didn't say 'thank you' and yet you always badger _me_ to say it," Sherlock grumbled. "Such a double standard."

"Thank you," John said, mostly out of surprise. "Are we going to discus my manners over coffee?"

"No of course not," Sherlock dismissed, sitting down. "This is about Molly—more specifically your relationship with her."

"Oh," John said. He took a slow sip of his drink and then spit it out. "Peppermint?"

"You said you liked it," Sherlock smirked. "Drink up. I need you fully awake."

John made a face, but took another sip.

"Molly told me about your argument," Sherlock explained. "What she said at dinner was both logical and true. A comment much like I would have made in the situation, if I were more financially sound than you, which I am not."

"That was the problem," John muttered. " _I'm_ the man, Sherlock. _I_ buy _her_ dinner, not the other way around."

"Oh now you're just being old fashioned," Sherlock sighed. "If she wants to purchase a meal, let her, it that's what makes her happy and most likely it does. If you consider Molly's personality, you can see that paying for a date would most likely gratify her. She's a doctor—she likes to help people. She has sacrificed many hours, quite a few at night, at my service and is never the first to break off a relationship. Now, if you are determined to be ridiculously old fashioned, simply let her know that it would make you happy to pay for things. Molly, above all else, likes to make people she cares for happy."

The men sat in silence. Sherlock sighed, adding one more conclusion, "Since Molly spends so much time making other people happy, I think she deserves to be. She's been crying all day and hasn't slept at all. Call her." He took his coffee and stood, smiling a bit a John.

"Thanks Sherlock," John said, taking a sip of his drink.

The detective nodded curtly. "I can't have my blogger and my pathologist in such a state. Makes things perfectly inconvenient for me."

"And he found a way to make this about himself," John sighed, leaning against the cushions as Sherlock left the flat.

"Okay," John said, backing out of his room, phone propped against his ear. He waited to listened, then frowned, "No, I'm sorry, really it was my—" He smiled. "Okay. I'll see you tomorrow at Bart's then? Alright… Goodnight Molly." He hung up.

Sherlock glanced up from his peaked fingers, leaning against his lips in thought. "Back together?"

"Yes," John said, rubbing his hands together. "I think I'll take her some flowers tomorrow. Want to join me? Your experiments need checking up on," he smiled, but it faded.

"You're concerned," Sherlock said.

"No I'm not," John dismissed, picking up that morning's paper.

"You're concerned about your relationship with Molly," Sherlock said again, standing up and clasping his hands behind his back. "You don't know what to do. You don't know."

John stood, "Since when do I take dating advice from you?" he asked, walking into the hall.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Three, two, one," he cued, nearly silent, counting down on his fingers.

"Alright, _what_ don't I know?" John asked, coming reluctantly back into the room.

"Step four," Sherlock told him.

"Step four? What do you mean?"

"Step one, coffee. Step two, the cinema. Step three, dinner. At which point, you usually manage get into a fight that ends your relationship or fail to contact your current girlfriend. You have never founded a step four, so to speak. You feel unprepared."

"I don't have steps," John said, incredulously.

"Yes," Sherlock rolled his eyes, "you do. I suggest a casual date. A walk in the park—nothing of monetary consequence since your disagreement was over money."

John sat down, blinking at Sherlock. He meshed his fingers over his knees and leaned forward, "Aren't you the love expert. Where—where did all this come from?"

"I _observe_ John. I've taken note of relationships. Now, usually, failed attempts are more—obvious and more frequent. But, I do know how to spot a successful relationship and what steps usually precede it. Events that allow for conversation seem to be the best rout. That's why I suggest a walk, or perhaps—"

"I get it, I get it," John said. "But maybe I don't _want_ to continue my relationship with Molly."

Sherlock cocked his head curiously. "Aren't you satisfied with your relationship? You just made amends, did you not?"

"Well, yes," John said, awkwardly, "I felt bad, but—you know what? I don't have to discuss this with you. Nope. We are _not_ going to have this conversation."

"John, I just need to know why."

'Why what?"

"What is it about Molly that makes you want to break it off?"

"I didn't say that." John sighed, tiredly when Sherlock only looked at him. "Well she's—she's lovely, Sherlock, she is. I mean to put up with you all the time—"

"Don't change the subject."

John shook his head. "She's just… just Molly, Sherlock. And I can't help thinking," he shrugged, "I could do better."

" _Just_ Molly?" Sherlock asked. "The girl is exceptional, John. When you began to date, I did research on her, hoping to dissuade you from perusing her—" here John made a noise of disapproval, but Sherlock waved him off, "—but I found so few flaws—and indeed many unexpected strengths—in her that I discovered my argument to be unfounded."

"What are you talking about? You researched her—"

"She was top of her class in science and math (and history, surprisingly) through junior high, high school, and college. Aside from working at Bart's, she volunteers at the Emergency Center. She is honestly kind—I only know because of the years I have know her, otherwise I would have suspected her of a mask character—the kind you put on when important people are present. Yes, I mean myself," he answered John before he could ask. "Without her I wouldn't be here, as you know. She is the _only_ one who made it possible for me to live." Sherlock spoke so rapidly, it was like he was realizing this all for himself. "Molly Hooper does everything in her power to make those she loves happy. She deserves to be happy. The point is that she's kind, smart, honest, and selfless, and, in her way, strikingly pretty. If I were ever to enter into a…" he said, but cut himself short, swallowing hard. "My overall answer is _no,_ John, I do _not_ think you could do better." He was standing now. "In fact, I think Molly a bit too good for you—too good for anyone. And if you break her heart," Sherlock warned, his voice low, "I'll never forgive you."

For a moment, Sherlock though he had moved his friend to tears. But when John sat up, the consulting detective realized that john was far from crying. He was _laughing._ And heartily at that. He was pink in the face and his shoulders shook tremulously.

Sherlock frowned deeply, his mind racing.

"In all our time together," John hiccupped. "I have _never_ heard you call anyone 'strikingly pretty' or—or—" he chuckled, doubling over, "threaten not to forgive someone—like forgiving people is something you do anyway!"

"I see," Sherlock said slowly. "You were a bit obvious, you know. It was really that that had me. I thought you'd be cleverer about it. I should have known," he sighed, turning to sit in his chair.

"Sherlock are you _blushing_?" John asked gleefully.

"That's what one does when one's embarrassed, is it not? I wouldn't know," he pouted.

"I'm sorry, I really am," John spluttered. "But it _was_ necessary. Besides I had to get you back, didn't I? For that whole… bomb episode. Not to mention the 'French Waiter' incident."

"Fine, fine," Sherlock said. "Perhaps it was… deserved."

John finally settled down enough to give Sherlock a serious look. He let loose a few more straggling chuckles. "Excellent. Well, I'm going to call Mary. Tell her the experiment is through," he sighed, standing. "And Sherlock?"

"Yes?" He asked, opening his eyes.

"You best go see Molly."

Sherlock knew Molly's Wednesday shift. He sighed, entering the automatic doors. Popping his coat collar around his cheeks, he trudged up the stairs, hands deep in his pockets, fists clenched to keep from trembling.

When he came to her door, Sherlock only paused to look in. She was washing her hands, elbow deep in suds that smelled like citrus and glue- strong stuff to cover the scent of death.

By her profile, Sherlock could tell she had no make-up on—not even foundation. Her hair, however, was down and slightly crimped from previous tight braids.

"How long," he began and she spun around sloshing water all over the floor and down her front, "did you think you could pull it off?"

She stood there dripping, the color draining from her face.

"And what," he strode into the room, "did you think the outcome would be? What did you think I would do? Realize I loved you all this time?"

Tears shown on her eyes and she shrugged, not daring to trust her voice. One tear tripped over onto her cheek and she let her hands drop. She took a step back, shoes squeaking in the water.

"You see I thought you _knew,_ Molly," he said, stopping short of the gathering puddle of water—the sink was spilling over now. "For someone as idiotic as you to put up with me for five years, I thought it was obvious enough. Otherwise, how could you stand it?"

Molly shook her head, not understanding. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. We just thought—"

" _Don't_ apologize," he said wearily. "I know, perhaps more than anyone realizes, what kind of man I am. I know I'm not easy to be around. It's obvious. I can count all my friends on one hand." He held up four fingers. "Mrs. Hudson. Quite by accident, but I'd give my life for her. Lestrade- merely by fairly regular contact. John, because he's the most patient person I know. And you, Molly Hooper," he said, water lapping at his shoes. "Because you have _always_ been there. Because you have _always_ put up with me. Because you have _always_ cared for me. And because I have _always_ loved you."

Her breath caught in her throat, her body shivering with cold and shock. He made no move to comfort her.

"I thought you knew, Molly, honestly I did," Sherlock said. "How could you go on putting up with my antics and insults and oddities—how could you keep loving me, if you thought I felt nothing in return?"

He waited for an answer, so she struggled to get a hold on her voice. All she could manage was, "I tried. I tried not to love you, Sherlock." She shook her head, "It doesn't work."

"John's plan, I think, was to make me see my affection for you. The only problem is, I already see them. They are present night and day, painfully obvious to me. But I can't love you, Molly. You're too fragile. Don't you see that I would only crush you?"

Molly shuddered, "I don't care."

"Nothing much would change," he said advancing another step. "I would still be harsh, ignore you during cases—in general, I would not change. The only thing that will change—that _has_ changed, is that you _know_ now, how much I love you." He shut his eyes to hide her hopeful expression. "Molly. We cannot be together. You know that?"

"I can't be with anyone else. Not now," she shook her head, feeling brave. "Sherlock, now that I know… I will always be here. I will wait for you. For when you realize that you can't fight it."

Sherlock breathed deeply, opening his eyes. She was closer now, an arm's length away. "My life is too dangerous."

"I'll wait until it's safe," she shrugged.

"I will never be safe!"

"You're worth the risk, then," Molly argued.

"I will _not_ risk your life to appease my feelings."

"It's not your risk to take," she snapped. "And I have feelings, too you know."

"We'd fight all the time." This he said with a bit of smirk.

"I'll let you win," she said.

"You won't have to—I _will_ win," he pointed out and she crossed her arms. He grew sober again. "I'll hurt you." Reaching out, he softly brushed her cheek.

"I'm tough."

"I know," he said, withdrawing his hand. For a moment, she thought he was going to leave, as indifferent as ever. But when he looked up at her, the mask was gone. "I'm _scared_ ," he whispered.

It took all of her might to say the next words, "I'll give you time."

He hugged her unexpectedly, pulling her into the warmth of his coat. She looped her arms around his neck, sighing in the scent of his hair. Her watched chimed quitting time before he let go, retaining only her shoulders. "Thank you," he said, kissing her cheek quickly. He let her go, finally, leaving her in the water alone.

"Sherlock?" she asked, before he got to the door.

He turned, blue eyes curious, "Yes, Molly?"

She shyly crossed the space between them, tennis shoes squealing. "John said you talked…"

"Yes," he said, voice low.

Her cheeks flamed red, "Did you really say I was… pretty?"

Sherlock almost smirked, turning for the door. He paused with his hand curled around the frame, staring at her. "Strikingly."


End file.
